


Perspectives of Sacrifice

by Dr_Fumbles



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17205113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Fumbles/pseuds/Dr_Fumbles
Summary: John does the unthinkable to save Elizabeth. Complete one-shot.





	Perspectives of Sacrifice

“Do you want to save her?”  
“Of course I do.”  
“What would you do?”  
“Anything.”  
“There is a way.”  
“The Offering is in the morning.”  
“It won’t take that long. If you can do it.”

The guard who brought John back to her cell was the only kindness they had known in 47 days locked up in the Quetzarian cells, a young man who still held a reserve of compassion on a cold, hard world. The Pegasus galaxy was full of cold, hard worlds, and people to match. Quetzar survived by quarterly offerings to a Wraith hive, and the Atlantis personnel who came through their Gate seemed like a gift from the Ancestors. Several Marines died helping all but two get away; the rest of the Offering would have to come from the local population.  
     For 47 days, John and Elizabeth had reassured each other that help would come, that Atlantis would find a way to save them. But no one had come, and few hours remained as purple dawn started to crest the mossy plateau.  
     When John told her what the guard had shared with him, he knew she would refuse, had told their jailer as much. And she did. Vociferously. But he felt he owed her a chance to consent. It would have saved a small part of him, the best of him. Her life came before his honor. She was still shouting at him when the fist impacted just above her left ear. It wasn’t enough to knock her out completely; he pulled it at the last moment, unable to hit her any harder.  
     She didn’t quite know what was happening at first, why her legs were cold, but her core was warm, his tongue trying to prepare her body for what her mind couldn’t do. Realization tried to hammer open the gates of consciousness, tried to make her fight, but his weight pinned her down. In a ragged whisper she begged him to stop, and with every thrust into her, he begged her forgiveness. He came inside of her just as the cell door opened and two senior Quetzarians pulled him off, clubbing John viciously.  
     “Did he finish?”  
     “Yeah. We’re going to have to find someone to replace her now.”  
     “Damn.”  
     They left her laying on the cold floor, head pounding, thighs slick with his seed and her own moisture. He had bought her another season of life. No Quetzarian would sacrifice a pregnant woman, or even one that might be pregnant, and Elizabeth Weir now fell in the latter category.  
     When the sun finished its slow ascent, the arena above her was filled with the sound of Wraith darts and the agonizing screams of the dying. She laid curled on her side, knowing one of those voices belong to John Sheppard, not crying, but seething with anger. It wasn’t that he’d raped her, it was that he had taken her sacrifice. When she’d signed on to the Atlantis Expedition, Elizabeth was prepared to die for her people, and as she got to know more of the Pegasus Galaxy, had come to expect it as inevitable. Whether Colonel Sheppard was her military advisor was irrelevant; it was her job to die for him, not the other way around. If – or when – they found her, she would have to explain why she was still alive, and John was not. If no one came for her, then after the baby was born, she would be sent to the arena, and the child raised to be another cold, hard Quetzarian who would one day make the same Offering.  
     She suspected John had thought he would only be purchasing another three months for Atlantis to rescue her, but as the next season of Offering arrived, it became obvious that she was pregnant. And yet no one from Atlantis had come. The Quetzarian authorities moved her from the cells to the home of a local doctor, charged with keeping her alive until she reached term. Elizabeth had very little interest in keeping herself alive; after five months, she knew no one was coming. A flexible reed was forced through her nose and into her stomach, and four times a day the doctor’s wife fed her a rich broth from a local root. She never spoke to anyone, never responded to their queries or kindnesses. Green eyes stared blankly into nothing when she was awake, moved rapidly with nightmares when she was asleep. Muscle and fat wasted away, leaving only protruding bones and a distended abdomen; John Sheppard’s child refused to leave her body.  
     Just as the third season of Offering arrived on the horizon, a ship appeared in the sky; the _Daedalus_ had finally found her. Over two dozen Marines beamed into the city center, guns drawn, while Major Evan Lorne demanded to see the Atlantean prisoners. With hands raised in cautious surrender, a contingent of old men led them to the low stone house not far from the arena. At first he did not recognize the woman they showed him, ghostly pale, limp brown hair spread across the pillow, wasted away except for an obviously pregnant belly. When Carson arrived, he found the terrified doctor’s family held at gun point, grim-faced Marines barely keeping their trigger fingers at bay.  
     Kneeling next to the bed, Dr Beckett whispered reassurances, tried to get the empty eyes to see him, told her to hold her breath while he pulled the feeding tube. But she only coughed and closed her eyes, trying to block out the hallucination of familiar faces and friends. When she woke up in the sick bay of the _Daedalus_ , she realized it was not a dream. And that was worse. People would come to her bedside, hold her hand and ask her questions, but she told them nothing. In all her time on Atlantis, John Sheppard was the only person she’d confided in, and he was gone now. He had betrayed her, but she didn’t want others to know that. Not to protect him, but herself.  
     In a shouting match with Colonel Caldwell, Carson finally won, demanding they return to Atlantis, rather than returning to Earth directly. He wanted her treated sooner rather than later, in a familiar setting with familiar people. Every day he sat with her, telling her about eight months of hell Atlantis had suffered, losing their ZPM, evacuating after a devastating Wraith attack, waiting at the Alpha site for help from Earth to arrive. Colonel Samantha Carter had been temporarily dispatched to stabilize the situation, but the IOA was insisting on replacing her with one of their own. He told her how Rodney demanded in every weekly report that a rescue mission be launched, how Teyla and Ronon had left to find proof that she was still alive, which was the only way they could convince the SGC to send the _Daedalus_ to Quetzar.  
     Ensconced in the Atlantis infirmary, surrounded by sights and sounds from another life, Elizabeth slowly came to realize that she was safe, that she was not hallucinating. Kate Heightmeyer came to see her on the third day, sitting in silence for several minutes before telling Elizabeth that they knew the baby was John Sheppard’s, not someone from Quetzar, so how could she let herself and the child of someone she loved die?  
     That was when she finally spoke, the first words she’d spoken since begging John to stop, and told Kate she did not love John Sheppard, that he had raped her so the Quetzarians wouldn’t take her to the Offering arena. She spoke with bitterness of his betrayal, that he had robbed her of her duty to Atlantis and its personnel. While she spoke, she cried for the first time in six months, tears of anger and sadness, because until those last moments, she had indeed loved John Sheppard.  
     Kate listened in silence, absently stroking Elizabeth’s hair to keep her grounded in the moment, reassured of safety. But the vital monitors spiked, disturbed by her increased blood pressure and heart rate, until Carson slipped a needle into her IV and sent her back to a dreamless sleep. The Chief Surgeon demanded to know what had gone wrong, and couldn’t hide his disgust, hissing for the psychologist to keep her voice down and tell no one what Elizabeth had said, not even Colonel Carter. The population of Atlantis currently thought Colonel John Sheppard had lovingly sacrificed himself to save Dr Elizabeth Weir and their unborn child, conceived on the eve of his execution. Destroying that Atlantean fairy tale seemed unwise at a moment when the future of the Expedition hung so tenuously in the balance.  
     Those were the last words Elizabeth spoke for several more days, refusing to respond to any further entreaties from Carson and Kate, Teyla or Rodney. All her life her mind had been racing from one negotiation to the next problem; now it was still, devoid of all stress, all pain, all anger, all happiness. She had no interest in negotiating with herself. Not even her dreams spoke any longer. It was nice here. When any thoughts did cross her mind, it was of Ascension, to leave this wounded body behind. There were no more cares tying her to this plane of existence.  
     She was wrong.  
     “Right, that’s enough a’ this.”  
     So said Carson Beckett as he bodily pulled Elizabeth from the infirmary bed, arms wrapped between heavy breasts and belly to keep her upright, demanding she stand on her own two feet. She only stood because his grip hurt, bruising her ribs. So physical pain did mean something to her. Building on this, Carson linked an elbow with hers and marched out of the infirmary double time, pulling painfully on her arm.  
     No one stopped them, no one offered a greeting; they just melted into the walls, letting the infuriated physician and vacant diplomat pass without comment, and afterwards were too shaken to even speak among themselves about what they had seen. Elizabeth stumbled in her bare feet a few times, but Carson wouldn’t let go, just kept walking until she was panting and begged him to stop, to tell her what it was he wanted.  
     “For ya ta say something, Elizabeth. That’s all I wanted.”  
     At a more leisurely pace he led her to the mess hall, mostly empty in the mid-afternoon, making her sit by the window and eat a plate of cold pasta while he chatted amiably about his family back in Scotland. Finally he asked Elizabeth if she wanted to talk to her mother, or even go back to Earth the next time the Daedalus came, but she only shook her head and pushed her spaghetti around until Carson put his hands on hers, stilling them.  
     He called Kate and Teyla next, asked them to take Elizabeth to her quarters; while he could have asked a nurse, he thought she would cooperate more if friends undressed her and gave her a proper shower for the first time in over eight months. Their hands were gentle, but she flinched at even the lightest touch of the cloth against sensitive nipples. Patience and fortitude was required while the two women sat for over an hour, working out snarled brown curls that had grown together over time. Rich vitamin lotion was rubbed into stretchmarks that had recently appeared, into arms and legs that were red with scrubbing.  
     They redressed her in loose pair of sweatpants and a borrowed Air Force t-shirt, none of her own large enough to cover her protruding abdomen. Teyla stayed the first night, sleeping on her side to face Elizabeth, whispering Athosian legends until the other woman fell asleep.  
     For the first time in weeks, she dreamed; but this one was different. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t angry, she was just…sad. And not because John Sheppard had raped her, but because John Sheppard was dead and gone. When Elizabeth woke, she was angry at herself; her rapist was not someone to mourn.  
     A routine was established, in which Teyla would stay the night, then hand Elizabeth off to Kate in the morning. Kate would take her to breakfast and wouldn’t let her leave the table until she was satisfied enough had been eaten. Then they would go for a walk, and wouldn’t stop until Elizabeth had said something deemed insightful. Then it was off to Carson, who insisted on foetal scans and vitamin injections, constantly adapted to whatever he found lacking. She often took a nap in the infirmary after her shared lunch with the doctor, her body daily developing more aches in her back and joints. Teyla would come in the evenings, indefinitely removed from the off-world roster, and would take her for another walk, to one of Atlantis’s balconies, where they would talk about anything that came to mind, as long as it wasn’t John Sheppard.  
     But every morning she still woke from her dreams with an ache in her heart and the image of Sheppard’s sad hazel eyes burned into her memory. The next time the Daedalus arrived, it brought a handwritten letter from Katherine Weir, recently informed that her missing daughter had been found. Dr Heightmeyer didn’t let Elizabeth read it until they were ensconced in her office, away from witnesses when the floodgates finally opened. It was the “Love, Mom” at the end that finally crumpled the last of her barriers, and Elizabeth sobbed until she was in agony, finally lapsing into a dreamless sleep with her head in Kate’s lap.  
     It was nearly dinner when she finally woke, and Kate was still there, having exchanged her thigh for a pillow, catching up on paperwork. She offered Elizabeth a cup of lukewarm tea and two aspirin, knowing an extended cry often leaves one with an atrocious headache.  
     “I want to tell you something, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, but I think you need to hear it.”  
     Elizabeth tensed, hands clenched around her mug, waiting for the bomb to drop.  
     “You are angry at John Sheppard, and rightfully so; what he did is unforgivable. But I also think he knew that when he did it. John Sheppard didn’t sacrifice his life to save you, Elizabeth: he sacrificed his honour.”  
     It was as if someone physically struck Elizabeth, jolting her back in her seat. Her mouth opened to deny Kate’s argument, but nothing emerged, because she knew the psychologist was right. If there was one thing John had held dearer than his own life, it was the lives of his team members and his personal honour. How hard it must have been for him, knowing what he was doing to her, knowing that the last thing he ever did would also be the worst thing he had ever done. He must have gone to his death with a withered spirit and head hung low, no sort of death she would ever have imagined for him; his soul had died before his body.  
     And for the first time, Elizabeth became aware of something stirring inside of her, specifically a kick in the ribs, alerting her to a reality: she was pregnant. And it was John Sheppard’s baby.  
     Laying a shaking hand on top of her stomach, she felt the tiny life inside of her angrily making itself known. How had she not noticed before now?  
     Sensing a change coming over her patient – her friend – Kate knelt in front of Elizabeth, resting a hand on top of hers, feeling the little *whumps* of a foot.  
     Elizabeth may have been awake now, returned to the present, but it didn’t make anything easier. Anger and numbness had been replaced by the sadness that once only occupied her dreams, and fear for the future. What was to become of her? Of the baby? No one had dared broach the subject with her at first. Would she keep it? Would she give it away? Her nights were restless with racing thoughts, food difficult to keep down as her stomach clenched with anxiety; migraines became a constant companion and her blood pressure bordered on a hypertensive crisis.  
     Colonel Caldwell had arrived with orders to take Dr Weir back to Earth on the _Daedalus_ , but Carson and Kate flatly refused to release her from their supervised care. Too much could happen in the three weeks between galaxies and neither were willing to risk their patients. Beta-blockers and bed rest were barely keeping Elizabeth stable, and she was starting to lose weight again, complaining that food just made her stomach hurt. Caldwell was sent off with a Scottish brogue still echoing in her ears; he hadn’t known the mild mannered surgeon could shout that loudly.  
     Where Carson and Kate had failed, Teyla stepped in, working to get Elizabeth to properly meditate and taking her to the mainland to spend time in the Athosian village, away from the reminders of everything that had gone so wrong. The Athosian did not care how she had become pregnant, did not treat her any differently than they always had. Elizabeth started to sleep peacefully again, looked forward to her Athosian meals, spent every day in the sunshine tending crops, crafting pottery, sharing stories. It was almost possible to feel normal here, untouched by any evil or tragedy.  
     And then the Wraith came, forcing Atlantis to cloak and stranding everyone on the mainland. Not satisfied to merely scan the planet, darts filled the sky day and night, looking for signs of life. Carson had come to check on Elizabeth, which was fortunate, because her water broke on the second night of their hiding in the forest shelters, five weeks too early.  
     Terrified and in agony, Elizabeth paced the confined room and moaned with every contraction, refusing help until she was physically held down so that Carson could examine her. Memories of John forcing himself between her legs sent even greater panic rushing through her veins and she managed to free a leg, kicking the poor doctor in the sternum. An Athosian midwife who had befriended Elizabeth was brought instead, her calm demeanour wearing off on the labouring woman. She talked Elizabeth through each contraction with a series of ritual mantras and slow movements. Every time she needed to check the progression of dilation she would ask Elizabeth’s permission to touch her first.  
     When the time came to push, Teyla helped to keep Elizabeth upright on a short stool, the midwife crouched between her knees and giving calm, unhurried instructions. Carson stood off to the side, ready to assist, but knew he wasn’t the best person for this operation. As the slim, dark body emerged from Elizabeth, eased by its premature smallness, no cry was offered from either mother or child.  
     “It’s a boy, Elizabeth.”  
     Reflex made her take the infant and hold him tightly against her chest, but her eyes were staring off into nothingness. What was she to make of this new life, this boy? Would he be anything like her? Would he be like his father? Warrior? Hero? Rapist? What would she tell him about John Sheppard, about how he came to be?  
     That last thought made her realize that she intended to keep the child; she could not give him up. If John could sacrifice his honour and life to save hers, then she could do no less. Whatever aspirations she had before now would be supplanted by what was best for her son; hers and John’s.  
     “Elizabeth, love, ya need ta let me put in a few stitches. Let Teyla take the baby a minute.”  
     Reluctantly, she let him go and moved from the birthing stool to the floor, leaning back letting Carson put in the needed stitches, closing the ragged tear. She was too tired to fight him, actually drifting off into a twilight sleep until a cool cloth brushed across her cheek. Wordlessly she let the midwife finish cleaning the salted sweat from her face and neck before accepting the tiny bundle back into her arms with Carson’s assurances that despite his early arrival, the infant was pinking up well.  
     “What are ya goin’ ta call him?”  
     Her answer was a shrug. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. For some reason, a name did not seem important.  
     “Elizabeth, look at me, love.” Carson took her face in his hands, squared his gaze with hers. “I need ya ta tell me honestly: do ya want ta keep this baby?”  
     “He’s my responsibility.”  
     “Lass, he needs ta be more than a responsibility; he needs ta be someone ya love. And if ya can’t love him, then ya need ta let him go.”  
     “John wouldn’t want that.”  
     “John’s not here, Elizabeth; it’s you, just you. And this wee boy.”  
     Looking down, deep hazel eyes looked back up at her. Dark hair stuck out in every direction and tiny lips opened and closed over pink gums. He didn’t look like John, or her; he just looked like himself, someone new, someone who could be anyone. Hesitantly, Elizabeth offered him a finger, quickly snatched by an impossibly small hand and pulled into the gaping mouth. She was struck by a remarkable thought: he was kinda cute.  
     “I can love him.”  
     Like every threat that came to Atlantis, the Wraith eventually passed and the Expedition surfaced again. Elizabeth kept herself mostly segregated from the rest of Atlantis, letting just a few trusted friends help with the baby; it was her way of disconnecting from the city. The next time the _Daedalus_ appeared in the sky, she departed on it without fanfare, without any farewells; in truth, she had left Atlantis a year ago, stepping through the gate onto Quetzar for the last time as Dr Elizabeth Weir, leader of Atlantis. She slipped away in the night with a baby swaddled to her front, Expedition rucksack on her back.  
     Atlantis would become a faded photo in her mind; the details of the architecture, the stained glass, blurring into an indistinguishable mist. People would ask her where she had been for the last three years, and she would tell them the cover story crafted by the SGC. They would ask about her son’s father and she would demure, saying only that he was killed in action, and no, they were never married, she did not consider herself a widow. They would ask the name of the little boy with untameable hair and she would tell them John Porter Weir, called Johnny.  
     She took a professorship at a small New England college; no SCG, no UN, no IOA. From time to time someone from her past would stop by to visit, but they became more and more infrequent; she let herself forget their names and their faces, all except for one, that greeted her with the same impish smile each morning. At the county fair every year she took him to ride the Ferris wheel, and in the fall they attended all of the college’s home football games. Johnny was the happiest of boys, perhaps trying harder for all the times he saw his mother so sad, only when she thought no one else could see. He never saw her cry as hard as the day he accidentally broke the little clay pot on the mantle, but she wouldn’t tell him why it was important. When he tried to apologise she had apologised to him instead, saying she was sorry for being so upset about something so inconsequential. But in his nightstand he kept a brown-hued shard, rubbing it with his thumb as he fell asleep, feeling like it was the closest he would come to ever really knowing something significant about his mother.  
     Sometimes she would lay in the grass in the backyard alone, looking at the stars on clear nights. He tried to go join her, but she would jump up and insist on taking him inside to read a story or play a game, pretending that she had not been doing anything. So he stayed away, would sit at his window and watch her watching the sky, wondering who it was his mother used to be, and why she had given it all up.


End file.
